


To Want And Not To Have

by ensorcel



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-19 23:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/pseuds/ensorcel
Summary: Miranda bears one tattoo. Andy is covered in them. Miranda wishes to never have more than one, and Andy hopes that love will hit her many times a life.





	To Want And Not To Have

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to Twentieth Century Fox and Laura Weisberger. All characters recognized do not belong to me. 
> 
> Many thanks to zigostia for beta duty, and all mistakes are mine.

Miranda bears a small tattoo on the inside of her left ankle, a delicate, gently crafted four-pointed star. It is painted in the blackest of blacks, and every morning, she makes sure the mark is covered—socks, pantyhose, concealer. But other than this tiny little star, her skin is bare. A porcelain delicacy with a hardness that only a life of sorrow can bring. Her mother was the same, she knows. (She remembers.)

Her mother did not bear more than one tattoo, and if she did, she hid it well enough to keep it from both Miriam and her husband. Miriam had only seen her mother’s original tattoo once, when she had forgotten to slip on a pair of socks in the early morning—a tiny cross on the strongly-defined fibula of not enough food on the table. A cross that her father does not bear.

Perhaps it was denial, to think that her parents had never loved one another for even some part of their lives, or a terrible guilt—Miriam knew that if she had not been born, her parents would not have stayed together.

“It does not do for the heart to take over the mind, Miriam,” her mother said. “God has made this system to test mankind. Do not lose.”

No other tattoo ever shows up on her skin, and her mother beams with pride.

She spends her days at school, watching as small markings pop up on her classmates’ necks, wrists, and ankles, and a very small sliver of her wishes she was the same. But her mother’s words repeat in her mind, and she walks proudly, haughtily, that she had not yet fallen into the trap God had woven for her.

And so, little Miriam walks through her long path of life with these sentences chanting back and forth in her mind, never to be torn apart.

* * *

It is no surprise that Samuel has a small four-pointed star on the inside of his right wrist, and it is no surprise that Miranda—Miriam must be left behind, Miriam _has_ been left behind—does not show any indication of any black mark other than her original. Samuel does not ask to see hers, and she does not ask to see his. But they both know.

The first time they meet is in a bar, both exhausted by the long hours of work they hold, Sam climbing his way up the finance ladder, and Miranda the fashion. Ambition is something that fuels them both, a trait they cannot seem to break away from their souls. Their romance is like a teenage one—it could very well be, them both nearly straight out of college—filled with hard kisses and loud proclamations in the streetlit alleys of 1980’s New York. Miranda is enchanted by his smooth words, and he her voice that she has not yet conditioned to the soft one of the future. Miranda’s mother is long dead, but she allows herself to believe that perhaps, just perhaps, Eleanor Princheck would’ve approved of Samuel Priestley.

They rush into a relationship, Sam moving in with Miranda, and a ring soon on the way. It slips perfectly onto Miranda’s elegant fourth finger, and she nearly forgets the fact that she does not bear Sam’s tattoo. She’s going to make this work, though. She must. She cannot have a trail of divorces behind her. Head over heart, she remembers. She is in love, she tells herself, over and over again.

It is for naught.

When Samuel leaves in a flurry of screams, broken promises, and a new tattoo on his collarbone (along with a new perfume), Miranda cannot help but feel a distinct sense of failure: the world does not follow her mother’s words as much as she thought they would. She punches the wall: this naïvety should’ve been pushed out long ago, when she had erased Miriam and rebuilt Miranda.

She screams after him, swearing to ruin him, throwing his things out the window right after him, hollering that his girlfriend will never be enough for him.

But the thought— _at least he has markings_ —nags in the back of her mind, and she cannot find the strength to silence it. It is from then, that Miranda learns to condition her voice to a soft, willowy whisper, to allow head over heart, but for all she tries, her skin is still as bare as day she was born.

* * *

The next time she marries, it is the same as the first: her husband bears her small star tattoo, but she does not bear his. She marries him out of convenience: a woman of her status needs to be married, and sometimes, she too, like everyone else, gets lonely at times.

Henry is a kind, loving man, one who would be great with children, and Miranda decides they would be a happy family. He is not as handsome as Samuel, but his crooked smile and gentle words eventually win her over. He knows that she does not hold his mark, but that she tries her hardest to love him. Loving is something Miranda has never been good at. She hopes, ever so dearly hopes, that this will work.

The day her beautiful twins are born is the happiest day of her life. She thinks, if this is what true happiness feels like, she wouldn’t give it up for the world. As their small faces with short tuffs of bright red hair smile brightly at her, Miranda decides that she does, in fact, have a heart, as small as it may be. It pumps loudly in her ears today.

The soft feet are marred with a dark half of a heart, and the other is the adjoining part. Miranda smiles to herself as she brushes a thumb over her darling daughters’ tattoos, and vows to never teach them the same lessons her mother had with her. Life is not a game, she has learned, for life isn’t fair, and God had never rewarded her for winning.

Henry is just as in love with her bundles of joy as much as she is, and as she lies in the hospital bed, sweaty and exhausted from the hours of labour before, watching her husband gently fuss with Caroline, she finds herself praying to a God she has not believed in for years, because he did not ever tell her that she had won the game. _Please, please, let this be my future. Please don’t let me screw it up._

It is bliss that surrounds her, and for that one, single moment, Miranda lets herself be at peace.

* * *

Miranda notices Henry’s tattoo on the nape of his neck, when he’s blow-drying his hair. It is of a small flower, the petals beginning to fall. She does not burn with jealousy, as she did the first time with Samuel, but the deafening sense of failure is constant. She finds that it is the only thing that has remained stagnant in her life recently.

She doesn’t confront him until weeks later, for the sake of the girls. They have heard enough arguments between their parents to last them a lifetime, she knows. She does not want to cause the single source of pure happiness in her life any more pain, when she knows that she doesn’t deserve them.

They speak quietly, Miranda’s silky voice coating over Henry’s loud ones, and she has to choke back tears.

But Henry, unlike Samuel, admits that he has fallen in love with another woman, and words of apologies spill from his lips. It is then, that Miranda truly realises, that she does not deserve a man like Henry, one who owns up to his actions, and loves their daughters with all the passion in the world. Miranda does not deserve such a man, and it is with both sorrow and regret that she lets him go. He deserves to be loved by a woman the way that he loves her: a love that Miranda couldn’t give.

They settle it quietly, keep it out of court, and over time, Miranda hopes that they can remain friends. She may have married him out of convenience, but it does not mean that she has not loved him to some extent.

The girls will suffer as little a possible out of this, Miranda and Henry both agree, and Henry reluctantly relinquishes custody to Miranda. Perhaps he knew too, that Miranda will not have another tattoo mar her skin.

The bright redheads stay in her life, and Miranda has made a habit of praying each night.

* * *

Stephen—Stephen is different.

He is charming, kind, and terribly intelligent. Married twice, like her, and father of a daughter from his first marriage. He is able to hold a conversation with Miranda for hours, and it is that that she loves most about him. She hopes a tattoo will show, but even weeks after courting, her skin remains as pristine as the day she was born. She sees the small star that is her own on the right hand of Stephen, and lets herself go. Hopes it’s enough for her to fall in love, for her to lose the game—oh, how she begs to lose!

(Hint: it is not.)

Miranda is tempted to go to an actual tattoo parlor and get Stephen’s tiny paw printed on her, but she finds she is not that desperate. Not yet.

They date like a respectable couple, and Miranda wishes she could fall in love like everyone else. Let herself go. She introduces him to her daughters, and she notices that he is quite talented with children. The twins are enchanted by him, and it seals the deal.

When Stephen steps down on one knee, she knows it isn’t going to work. She says yes anyways.

A beautiful ring slips onto her left hand, fourth finger, heavy, and terribly out of place. It isn’t going to work, chants over and over in her mind. (Her mother may be dead, but her voice is a constant in Miranda’s life.)

Their vows are spoken. Caroline and Cassidy make gorgeous flowergirls.

When Stephen moves in, the house is filled with laughter from day to night. Miranda makes sure she leaves work by six at the latest, and in the cozy kitchen, she finds that she could be happy like this. Live the rest of her life like this.

She also finds she prays more than once a day.

* * *

The first thing she notices about her possible second assistant is that she is covered in tattoos. The girl is covered from head to toe in black ink, and Miranda immediately notices the long-sleeved, hideous blazer—if you could even call it that—and long pants cleverly covers most of her skin, but the markings peek through her wrist and neck. Miranda has never hated anyone so quickly, the jealousy burning through her.

The girl walks in with an assuredness that Miranda has not seen in a while, and with an attitude so high up on her horse filled with naivety that Miranda wants to push her off the edge. See how long she lasts. An impressive resume of _Stanford University_ , _journalism degree_ , and _editor-in-chief of The Stanford Daily_ , floats before her, and the burn of jealous sears. Rages.

She is ruthless with the girl, but the gall of her is what makes her make Emily call her back.

Andrea, she thinks. The name rolls off her tongue with ease.

Miranda puts the girl to every test she can think of, disgust filling her as she watches the long-legged brunette prance around with her many tattoos on proud display. Stephen yells at Miranda for not bearing his tattoo. She ignores him.

One day, Andrea walks in proudly in head-to-toe Chanel, with knee-high boots accentuating her legs, and a smug smile on her face. Miranda stops speaking mid-sentence on the phone, and tries her best to glare at her second assistant. Her outfits grow bolder, and Miranda notices the small ring of clear skin around her left ankle, surrounding a beautifully delicate rose petal, when she wears a pair of Dior black heels and Prada mini skirt.

When Andrea drops the seemingly impossibly obtained _Harry Potter_ novel on her desk with her usual cup of coffee and that annoyingly radiant smile, Miranda can’t help but think how much this girl has grown before her eyes.

A small petal of a rose appears right underneath her left breast.

* * *

Her third divorce is the messiest. Stephen never discovers her secret tattoo, she well makes sure of that, but she works later, longer, as a way to avoid his glaring looks and shouting words. She does not bear his tattoo, and he knows. Unlike her past husbands, he makes a fuss about it, screaming, “Do you not love me?” and “How did I marry a woman who did not feel the same way?”, to the point where Miranda comes home much after six, and leaves as early as possible in the morning. They sleep in separate bedrooms.

Out of all her husbands, Stephen was the one she wanted to work out the most, even though from the beginning she knew it wouldn’t. Her girls, her darling girls, how they had to suffer, with screaming matches blaring through walls thinner than she thought, and it is with sad eyes that she watches them huddled on Caroline’s small twin-sized bed, nearly shivering from fright.

Her poor, darling girls.

She keeps her vow of never to raise her children the way her mother raised her, and she watches as tattoos blossom all over the sun-kissed skin of her two daughters, beaming with pride.  

It is her girls, that keeps the hole in her heart filled, and every time she looks in the mirror, tracing a delicate finger over the small rose petal, she wishes that she had never fallen in love in the first place. Perhaps her mother was right.

After a rough session with Stephen, Miranda walks in early in a flurry of rage, and Andrea is there, a perky smile plastered over her face, and a “Good morning, Miranda” slipping out of her lips. She is wearing a lovely green Versace top, and a pair of Prada skinny jeans, with a flash of her small tattoo on the inside of her ankle. Her jewelry is simple, a dash of diamond at the ears, a cut of emerald at the neck, and a delicate shade of gold on the finger.

Miranda pauses.

On _the_ finger. Of the left hand, fourth digit.

“What is _that,_ ” she sneers, and watches as the girl’s face crumples before her. “Black, now.” The girl dashes out of the office faster than lightning, and Miranda smirks. She drops into her chair, sweeping her eyes over the spread her the girl had presented for her that day, but her mind wanders to everything but it.

Wanders to Andrea.

She comes back much too quickly, with a new cheery smile back on her face, and bright brown eyes with an optimism that nearly makes Miranda sick. Her ring glints mockingly in the sunlight of the early morning, and Miranda has to resist the urge to send her out for another errand.

Until she realises.

She is jealous, she realises.

Miranda Priestly is _jealous._

_You old bat._

The coffee stays on the edge of her desk, cold. She shakes herself, mentally. Her tattoo burns traitorously on her skin, and she wishes she could scratch it off.

She can handle this. This was just a blip. A mistake.

Blips can be handled. Be taken care of.

She forgets about Andrea for the rest of the day.

* * *

Stephen hits her hard one night, right across the cheek, and she is absolutely terrified.

It is a feeling that is nearly foreign to her, watching as her husband creeps up to her and grabs her by the neck. She can already sense the bruises beginning to form, but her glare stays steady. She wishes she could say the same for her voice.

The once-alluring scent of alcohol stinks in the air, and Stephen’s breaths are heavy on her skin.

“Out—” she growls. “Leave, now!”

He slaps her again, the sting causing her to stagger back.

“NOW!” she screams, and she has not heard herself lose such control in such a long time, Miranda cannot help but wonder, is this even her at all?  

He dashes out of the house, slamming the door behind as she massages her neck, knowing for sure, when she looks in the mirror, dark purple spots will be all over. There is a slight scream after the door cracks, and Miranda collapses on her bedroom floor, silent sobs shaking her body.

Her girls. Her beautiful, darling girls.

She wonders if leaving them with their father would be the safer choice. (For all of them.)

She also wonders if praying even works anymore, because she does so every night, and God has not granted a single one of them yet.

She wonders if it’s time to give up.

* * *

There are little things constant in her life.

One of them is her daughters.

The other, surprisingly, is Andrea.

The cup of hot coffee set on her desk each morning, delivered with a blinding smile and glint of a traitorous gold ring, is constant. Andrea, with her once-horrid fashion sense and splattering of tattoos over smooth skin. Andrea has managed to worm her way into Miranda’s heart with beaming grins and small gestures of boldness, and Miranda tries her best to ignore the shine of gold on the girl’s fourth finger. _Emily,_ would never place a bottle of concealer with the bravery, and shaking hand Andrea had.

Until Paris.

Quite ironic, isn’t it? Paris—the city of love.

* * *

Stephen faxes over the divorce papers.

Miranda is not surprised. After all, she was expecting it. Wanting it, almost.

She finds herself crying anyways.

A constant steps in. Andrea steps in. Andrea, with her large doe eyes that broadcasted all her feelings to the world, and her gentle words. Miranda cannot stand the words. She finds that she has long forgotten how to separate concern and pity, and ends up pushing both away.

So it is a surprise, when Andrea leaves.

With a turn of a heel, splash of a phone, and a splattering of tattoos, Andrea Sachs is gone, slipping right through Miranda Priestly’s well manicured nails.

The girl from Cincinnati, Ohio with less fashion sense than her dog, had managed to stun Miranda Priestly.

The one tattoo Miranda has ever gotten in her life, the small little rose petal, leaves in a flurry of past loves. Andrea, who bore tattoos across tattoos, did not bear Miranda’s.

Miranda is expecting her daughters to leave her—good things come in threes? Isn’t that the saying? With her, it’s more like bad things come in threes—and drowns herself in an expensive bottle of red wine, leaning over the railing of her balcony. The press could find her, she knows. She doesn’t care. (She is beginning to understand why Stephen chooses this type of escape.)

The alcohol leaves her blurred and exhausted, but it numbs everything for a while.

She receives a call from Cassidy, telling her that she and her sister are leaving to stay with their father for a while. Miranda does not object; she already feels that she has cheated them enough, having to hold onto them for so long. But what makes the tears come is Cassidy’s tone: it is the one Miranda had used when she was Miriam Princhek, speaking to her mother. It was the one she used when she killed Miriam Princhek and destroyed her off the map.

And she is left, collapsed on her ridiculously expensive four poster bed, the constants in her life gone, just like that, with the soft breezes of French air.

It has been some time since she’s prayed, and at one point, she had simply forgotten how.

* * *

When what’s-his-name from _The Mirror_ asks for a reference for Andrea Sachs at Runway, Miranda thanks God that she was the one who picked up the phone, and not Emily. Emily, who would not know how to deal with this. Andrea would’ve— _if Andrea hadn’t left this wouldn’t matter._ She snappishly tells him that she’ll fax one over, and scribbles on a notepad, _Out of all my assistants, Andrea was by far the biggest disappointment._

She pauses. She could destroy the girl in a few strokes—but she remembers the cups of burning hot coffee set on her desk with a beaming smile and a display of tattoos worn proudly on her back.

 _If you don’t hire her, you’re an idiot,_ she grudgingly scratches, and runs it off to _The Mirror’s_ offices.

Regret boils in her veins.

* * *

Andrea dazzles in a darling navy dress, the halter shimmering in jewels, completely backless. Dior, Miranda notices. Dior is a designer the girl seems to favour, and Miranda understands why. There are tattoos everywhere, and Andrea shows them off like a mother would her prodigy child. A sword, daisy, lifeline, pen, the list goes on. Miranda hungrily takes it all in, her eyes sweeping and scanning for a small, four pointed star.

She is disappointed.

But not surprised.

It seems that the one person Miranda Priestly has managed to fall in love with, is the person who falls in love with everyone but her.

The girl flutters around, accepting compliments from far and wide, and Miranda watches with a sense of pride for the brunette. A glass of champagne rests in her hand, and Miranda finds herself drinking more than she ever had at any event. The glaring fact that the thin gold band has disappeared off the girl’s hand as she flirts with young men with bare hands does not help. Neither does Nigel’s impish grin, but Miranda has to resist the urge to slap it off his face; the ice is only beginning to thaw.

Her shoes are Chanel, Miranda realises, and her tattoo burns right under her heart.

She wishes she could scratch it off.

She finds that in the game God has created, the only option one has is to lose.

And whatever others may believe, Miranda Priestly is only as human as the rest of them, no matter how small her heart may be.

Andrea glides over in her shining dress and tattoos, with a glass of red wine in hand and Nigel on her arm. The girl is clearly drunk, and Miranda wonders if she’s here to mock her. No, she thinks. There is no way she would’ve known.

Miranda quickly excuses herself from the small conversation between Donatella and Patrick, and escapes to the balcony. She knows Nigel is leading Andrea there. The man needs to find a hobby—preferably one that does not extend to her.  

Nigel is in hand with the girl, and dashes off when they meet. A splintering glare is sent in his direction.

“Nigel said that—” The girl glances around, nearly swaying. “Nigel?”

Miranda eyes her coldly. _Blip. This is just a blip._

“Lost without your companion?”

Andrea blinks, seemingly out of a trance.

“Miranda!” she exclaims, realising where she is, much louder than Miranda prefers.

“Andrea,” she acknowledges.

The girl is so terribly young, Miranda realises, as she watches long lashes cover bright brown doe eyes, and lips that look freshly kissed. So, so, terribly young.

“How are you?” she slurs, and smiles a smile that nearly blinds Miranda.

“Well,” Miranda replies. She does not ask after the girl.

“Runway?”

“Well.”

“Good,” Andrea says, and take a slip of wine. “Good.”

Miranda watches her with a careful eye. The girl’s hand shakes as the glass touches her lips.

“Still scared of me, Andrea?” Miranda asks, an imposing eyebrow raised.  

“What? No?” the girl replies too quickly. “Absolutely not.”

Miranda raises an eyebrow. Andrea stares her straight in the eye, and she realises that the girl is telling the truth.

“I haven’t been scared of you in awhile, Miranda,” she quietly says.

“Oh really?”

Andrea doesn’t have time to reply.

A blonde hair man walks up to them and takes Andrea’s hand. There is a small coffee cup etched on his collarbone, and he, unlike Andrea and much like her, he is devoid of tattoos. On Andrea, at her wrist, there is too a small coffee cup. The man bears the same rose petal that Miranda does, the one right underneath her breast, her heart.

Her throat closes up, and she has to keep her hand from dropping the champagne glass.

Andrea was never hers to be begin with. Will never be hers.

She leaves in a sweep of Chanel and silkwood perfume, barking for her assistant to call her car.

Until Andrea grabs her hand. She freezes, and the girl does too. She drops Miranda’s hand immediately, and Miranda seethes at her violation of privacy.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and her eyes bore into Miranda’s. She tears herself away, knowing if she looked into those forgiving, naive eyes, she will break. And Miranda Priestly cannot afford to break.

This is a blip. It can be handled. Easy to handle.

How terribly wrong she is.

* * *

A text pops into her phone, and Miranda wonders when Andrea has become quite so bold. Perhaps a few months of reporting has brought her more backbone than nearly a year at Runway. Well, Miranda would not be surprised, if the girl as indeed telling the truth with her loud proclamations and jumbled words.  

_I’m sorry. -AS_

The message rings in her ears, and Miranda cannot let herself delete it. She finds herself replying.

_I’m worried that the only words out of your mouth will only ever be that. -MP_

She place the phone down, only until it pings a few minutes later.

_I’m worried that someone has replaced you. -AS_

Her fingers rapidly fly over the keyboard.

_My, my, where has this bravery come from? -MP_

Seconds pass before her phone flashes again.

_Time away from Runway. -AS_

Miranda smirks.

_Wouldn’t Nigel be proud? -MP_

_Whyever would he care? -AS_

_That his darling little “Six” has finally grew up. -MP_

_Ah ha! You did know! -AS_

_Of course I knew. You clearly find it very hard to shut up at times. -MP_

_Tell Emily she owes me ten bucks. -AS_

_I’m afraid she would collapse of shock if I did so. But your message will be passed on. -MP_

_Thanks, your reporter has a lead to catch—talk to you later? -AS_

_Go do your job. Yes, 7pm tonight. -MP_

_Have a good day, Miranda. :) -AS_

_Good luck, Andrea. -MP._

Miranda smiles, and clutches her phone like a teenage girl.

* * *

Texts turn to phone calls, and phone calls turn to meetings in small cafes.

Miranda comes to cherish Andrea’s too-loud laugh and small dimples at the sides of her cheeks, and her sometimes-horrid fashion sense. She watches as new tattoos pop up all over the girl’s pale skin, and wishes she could scratch hers off.

She finds that, for this one thing in her life, a constant that she never thought would come back—her girls did—she is willing to settle. For friends, if nothing more.

She also finds herself praying to a God she has never believed in to (again) please, please, please, don’t let her screw it up.

Phone calls turn to meetings in small cafes, and meetings in small cafes turn to dinners at Miranda’s house.

Andrea worms her way into her girls’ hearts the way she has into Miranda’s, and soon, once a month turns to once a fortnight, and once a fortnight turns to once a week, and once a week turns to every few days.

Andrea has become a constant in her life that she had never expected would.

“They are taken to you,” Miranda muses, slicing up an apple. Andrea plucks a piece from the plate, while Miranda glares at her. The girl sits herself on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs back and forth like a child.

“I sure hope so, though I don’t know how you do it. They run me around in circles,” Andrea chuckles, mouth full of food.

“You’re not the only one,” Miranda grumbles. Andrea laughs, and smiles down at her. “I thought another adult figure would help them somehow, but it seems it hasn’t worked,” Miranda quips, looking pointedly at Andrea’s position. She laughs again.

“You love it, admit it. I bring a little bit more fun into your life,” she jokingly says. Miranda stiffens.

“What?” Andrea looks at her in concern.

“Nothing,” Miranda replies. “Nothing at all.”

Andrea, who has long become fluent in Miranda-speak, drops the subject, and steers it far away.

Andrea, who has learned to read Miranda too well, and Miranda, finding that she doesn’t mind.

* * *

Fighting with Andrea is not fun, Miranda comes to realise. The girl has developed a backbone Miranda has not seen since they’ve met, and she discovers that morals can be annoyingly distracting.

“Miranda, I would really appreciate you allowing me to reply to your plans before you hang up, so I can see if I’m available,” Andrea pleads. “I understand the people you are around are also of the same status as you, but I am not.”

“Miranda, please.”

“Miranda, I’d just like some even footing.”

“Miranda.”

The parallels to her husbands is astounding. She shakes herself—Andrea will never feel for her _that_ way, the way Miranda does for her.

At this point, her marriages would be at the brink of divorce, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Miranda finds that she does not know what to do. The feeling is foreign, like a new word rolling off your tongue. She picks up her phone and dials the number she knows by heart.

Her tattoo burns.

“Sachs,” the girl announces, her voice full of sleep. Miranda smiles.

“You don’t have to state yourself every time, you know,” Miranda quips. “You have caller I.D., don’t you?”

Andrea sighs.

“What is it, Miranda?” There is a pause. “It’s 2:43 AM. On a Wednesday night. Call me in the morning.”

Miranda is silent.

“Miranda?”

“I apologise,” tumbles off her mouth. Her hands are shaking. The phone is shaking. (She doesn’t know why.)

Andrea doesn’t reply, and Miranda smirks. “You can take your jaw off the floor now,” she sighs, jokingly.

“Wow, OK, well,” Andrea stutters.

“Don’t stammer—it’s unbecoming,” she sniffs haughtily. She can hear Andrea’s smile through the line. “Aren’t you supposed to be a writer?”

Andrea laughs, and Miranda lets a small smile slip onto her lips. “Thanks,” the girl finally works out. “I’ll see you tomorrow, like we planned? Now let me sleep.” It’s Miranda’s turn to be shocked.

“That’s it?” she asks, and resists the urge, too, to drop her jaw to the ground.

“It’s how an apology works, Miranda,” Andrea says. “Call me in the morning when the sky is blue.”

Miranda smiles.

“Goodnight, Andrea.”

“‘Night, Miranda.”

She falls asleep clutching her phone and for the first time, she prays to God, thanking him, a man she has never believed in.

* * *

Miranda has taken to inviting Andrea over for dinner, and soon, Miranda finds herself still working when Andrea arrives, and the girl, ever so smart that she is, makes habit of bringing her laptop and working in silence in Miranda’s overpriced library.

There is a comfort, as she listens to Andrea tap away at her keyboard, as each story is brought to life on the shanty laptop. Miranda’s pen scratches away, and she finds that the library is a place where she is able to let her guards down.

She finds that Andrea, the girl who has managed to worm her way into Miranda’s heart, has also managed to worm her way under the walls Miranda had killed Miriam with. There is a danger in love, repeats in her mind; her mother’s voice is difficult to shut off, at any time, at any age.

But today, today, as she watches Andrea tuck a long leg underneath her and kick off her bright red Jimmy Choos, with her laptop perched on her thigh, on Miranda’s ten thousand dollar loveseat handmade in Iran, her mother’s voice is silent. Silent, like it had never existed.

Miranda studies Andrea’s tattoos more than ever—she takes in the new ones, the old ones, and wonders, if there’s any that Andrea hides too, like Miranda.

(Of course, she has no right to that information, but Miranda, who has never been denied what she has wanted, finds that difficult to become accustomed to.)

She finds that everything is new territory when it comes to Andrea.

She also finds that she comes to enjoy it. Love it, almost.

Miranda’s glaze burns into Andrea, and it seems the girl has noticed. Miranda quickly looks away, like a teenager would their crush. (It’s not too far off, really.)

But not quick enough.

Andrea, ever the the smart one, notices. Her eyes widen, and Miranda has to stop herself from blurting everything out right there. She is waiting for the girl to run out of her house, terrified that Miranda Priestly, harbours _feelings_ for her.

But it doesn’t come.

Andrea slides off the loveseat, setting her laptop aside, and crawls until she’s kneeling before Miranda, her hands on Miranda’s lap. She looks daringly into Miranda’s eyes.

Please, please, please, Miranda prays, _please, don’t let me throw this away. Please, let this work._

(It seems, for the first time, He hears her.)

Andrea leans towards her, and her perfume of cheap lavender and silkwood wafts around Miranda. The girl tilts her face, and ever so gently, places her lips on Miranda’s. She kisses softly, gently, and Miranda kisses her right back.

Her tattoo beats away along with her heart.

Andrea pushes her calmly against the back of the couch, kissing Miranda’s neck as she goes along. Soft moans come from Miranda’s lips, and echos of her name slip from Andrea’s. Andrea pulls at Miranda’s shirt, until Miranda whispers.

“Not here,” she manages to gasp out. “Bedroom.”

Andrea smiles, and pulls Miranda up, shoving her against the wall, sucking at her neck as they climb the stairs. Miranda’s shirt is lost somewhere on the way, along with Andrea’s pants.

“Beautiful,” Andrea says. “Beautiful.”

* * *

Andrea’s hand lazily traces over Miranda’s tattoo, her finger gently digging into the porcelain skin. The question, “why only one?” hangs unsaid in the air, but Andrea knows. Miranda doesn’t need to explain that. After all, Andrea is fluent in Miranda-speak as much as she is in English, and that means that words unspoken are words heard too.  

“Where is mine?” is asked though, and it slips from Miranda’s mouth.

She is ever so curious, wondering where on Andrea’s body of many markings lies hers. Where does she lie on the map of many loves Andrea has endured?

The reporter’s eyes gleam childishly, and a smile falls onto her mouth.

“Why don’t you find out?” she asks, and slowly begins to pull the comforter from them. Miranda’s hands wander down the slim waist, swell of breasts, and wide hips. It seems, that through a life of declaring the perfect body of a woman was a stick, she has forgotten truly, how beautiful Andrea is.  

There are tattoos everywhere, from her neck to her toes. A few are scattered throughout, a few clumped together, but Miranda cannot seem to find hers. The four pointed star is as absent from Andrea as Miranda’s awareness for the beauty around her.

Until she spots it.

In the middle of small cluster of tattoos, in the middle of a knife, lifeline, scales, droplet of water, sits the little, four pointed star, right underneath Andrea’s left breast, and over her heart. Miranda traces gently over the small star she has seen on her lovers, but this time, she bears more than one tattoo.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs. “Absolutely beautiful.”

She looks into Andrea’s eyes and catches an expression that can only be described as tender. Miranda blinks.

She kisses Andrea softly, pushing the reporter to the headboard of the bed, sending trails of kisses down her collarbone, until she reaches the small four pointed star.

In a life where Miranda has only ever fucked, the idea of “making love” is about as foreign as the feeling of another’s tattoo etched in to her skin. Quiet moans of her name reach her ears, and she’s sure it’s the same for Andrea.

Andrea gently flips Miranda over, pinning her to the bed with delicate kisses and proclamations of her name.

Miranda finds out that making love is very different from fucking, and she also finds that, perhaps, love isn’t as bad as it seems.

Miranda also finds herself praying, but this time, it is a thank you, to a man she never believed in, for the woman who bore her tattoo as loyally as Miranda bore her’s.

* * *

Andrea is as beautiful as the morning day.

With her endless tattoos, scars, and black ink splattered over what must’ve been once smooth skin, Andrea is a story wrapped inside a person, and Miranda cannot help but wonder what tales of love, hardship, and courage, lies within Andrea’s marks. She knows she and Andrea are more similar than one may believe, and she wonders if Andrea has made the same mistakes as she had. She wonders what a life she has led.

She gently traces the numerous tattoos etched over Andrea, and the reporter softly hums in response.

“Tell me your stories,” Miranda does not say, as much as she’d like to. “What about this one?” she does not ask, as she places a finger over a small flower.

But Andrea knows. She hears Miranda’s silent questions, and she too, knows that she needs not to answer. But she does anyways, because Miranda realises that Andrea is a much better person than she, and Miranda realises that is it not life that has hardened the reporter, but herself.

“I fall in love easy,” Andrea begins, stating the obvious, but Miranda does not scoff. She wants to hear Andrea pour herself out to her, and if that is in meaningless poetry, so be it. “The first tattoo I got was when I was five. I don’t know whose it was.”

Andrea points at a small heart on the inside of her left wrist. Miranda nods, and places a soft kiss on it.

“And after that, it was like fireworks. Tattoos would pop up all over me; I would get a few a year, a few a month,” she whispered. “My parents were proud after the first few, but after that, they could barely tolerate me.”

Miranda nods once again.

“Tell me more,” she does not prompt. “Write me a story about your life,” she does not request, because Miranda understands. Because one side of the spectrum often gives the same as the other, and it is Miranda that understands more than most.

Miranda gently places a kiss on Andrea’s lips, and Andrea pulls her closer, hooking a leg around hers.

Miranda does not pray to a God she no longer believes in. She does not pray to Him asking Him to not let her fuck it up. She sighs with content, and lets herself be held by Andrea, and she knows she would do anything, to keep Andrea.

She no longer needs a God.

* * *

The little petal of a rose remains on Miranda’s skin, and none of Andrea’s tattoos go away. Andrea does not tell all of her stories, and Miranda does not ask. Things are not perfect, and Miranda knows that it never will be. After all, God has never rewarded her for winning the game, so she finds there is no point in winning at all. Anyways, if this is what losing is like, Miranda wouldn’t give it up for the world.

Things are not perfect. Miranda sometimes forgets Andrea is no longer her employee, and Andrea sometimes forgets to remind her. Fights fly up everywhere; they are both too strong-willed for their own good. Tabloids print nonsense for weeks, and it is not until a year later that Andrea can go anywhere without being ambushed by paparazzi. For Miranda it’s even worse, but she has learned long ago how to hold New York in the palm of her hand. Cassidy falls in love with Andrea as fast as Miranda did, but Caroline takes a little more time, but soon, a small family blooms out of the extravagant townhouse Miranda has poured her heart into. Sometimes Andrea can’t kept her temper in check, and sometimes Miranda fears that Andrea will leave.

They will not get married. Miranda won’t stand another wedding, but she doesn’t tell Andrea, for she already knows. Miranda does not know if Andrea wants the whole, blooming affair, but if she did, Miranda knows that she would tell her.

But some days, the fear of Andrea leaving never vanishes.

“This is for keeps, you know?” Andrea asks one day, suddenly grabbing Miranda’s arm, as though an epiphany had just hit her. Perhaps one had.

Miranda raises a bemused eyebrow.

“For _keeps?_ ”

Andrea blushes a lovely shade of pink that Miranda hopes to capture in the pages of her magazine, but knows she never will.

“You know,” she stammers. Miranda can feel a small smile playing on her lips, as hard as she tries to keep it off. “For good—for, uh, ever.”

 _"You know,_ ” Miranda mocks, “For a writer, you are terribly eloquent with your words.”

Andrea blushes even harder.

“But I do know,” Miranda says quietly. “For keeps.”

She gently takes Andrea’s hand, holding onto it tightly.

“For keeps.”     

 **FIN.**  

> _“To want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain. And then to want and not to have—to want and want—how that wrung the heart, and wrung it again and again!”_ —Virginia Woolf, _To the Lighthouse_

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to write my first The Devil Wears Prada fic after going on a reading spree this weekend. Hope you enjoyed, and I'd love to hear what you think :)


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